


Maiesiophilia

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Pregnancy Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:42:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd





	Maiesiophilia

 

Typically, his...interest...wasn’t a problem. Most of the women he came into contact with willingly (which were few) were not...afflicted. And the ones he did see willingly were either far too advanced in years to attain that particular condition (Mummy, Mrs. Hudson, Louise in records at the Met, Madame Charles at the haberdashery) or in no rush to do so (Donovan, Molly, Hilly at Speedy’s, the women and girls in his Network). It was just a little kink in his wiring, he had long ago decided, something that he could not delete but he could program around. It was curious, he mused, watching John get dressed in the wee hours of a Thursday morning. He had no desire to actually _sleep_ with women, no drive other than the shades of a biological imperative that was satisfied quite nicely by sex with John and the knowledge that, should he ever desire offspring for whatever reason (head injury, loss of his senses... John giving him that look and sighing when they saw a baby with two fathers, John playing with Harry’s little boy), there were methods that did not involve female sexual organs in proximity to his own genitalia.

“What’re you looking so thoughtful about then?” John asked, voice sleepy and rough. He tugged on one sock, tilting his head to see Sherlock as he patted around aimlessly for the other on the floor. “After last night, I’m surprised you’re not even a bit sleepy.”

“I like to watch you get ready,” Sherlock replied, shrugging. “And I’m always thoughtful. In the sense that I’m having many thoughts,” he added before John could make some comment about his thoughtlessness towards people they knew and didn’t know.

“Mmmm. Fine, don’t tell me. I need to get going--early shift. I’ll leave you some toast, shall I?”

“French tonight? Or Spanish?”

“Neither. Don’t you remember? We’re going to Molly’s for that shower.”

Sherlock sat up, a frown creasing his features as visions of an ill-advised menage a trois danced through his head. “Showering with Molly? I don’t think I understand.” Lestrade, he knew, would not be agreeable to that. Or would he? That would explain some comments over the years... But he’d only been with Molly for eight months.... wasn’t this a bit soon to introduce other players to the game? And why had John agreed? “John...”

John managed to swallow a giggle and finally straightened, fully dressed and needing a bit of a shave before work. “No, you great git. Baby shower. Don’t you remember that whole conversation yesterday? No, wait, let me guess... it’s been deleted and is sitting in your recycle bin, waiting for final removal. She’s almost five months gone, isn’t she? Lestrade’s over the moon and Molly’s giddy as a school girl. Moving in together next week.” John flashed Sherlock a smile and added, “We were invited to the shower by Donovan, remember?”

“Um. Yes. Of course. Well, if I don’t have a case on...”

“Seeing as how Lestrade, Dimmock, Gregson and pretty much anyone at the Met who is willing to work with you is going to be there this evening, I’m fairly certain you’re stuck coming with me and playing nice.” He paused in the doorway and tossed over his shoulder, “And don’t you dare touch the box on the coffee table. That’s the baby present and it took me ages to wrap it. I know where you live and at least six different ways to incapacitate you using my tea mug.”

Sherlock sank back into the duvet as John’s steps retreated downstairs. “Bloody, buggering Hell,” he groaned to himself. Leave it to Molly to introduce a new level of Hell to his life.

 

Sherlock was, in a word, miserable. They arrived early and were ushered into Molly’s living room just in time to witness the end of a truly epic snog between her and Lestrade. The pair pulled apart, both looking various shades of sheepish as Molly offered them drinks and Sally rounded on her gently, reminding her that, just because this was her house didn’t mean she was hostess this evening. John had laughed and Molly sighed, rolled her eyes and flopped back onto the sofa. “Getting tired yet?” he’d asked, patting her on the shoulder as he moved to give Lestrade a hearty, blokey smack on the arm.

“No more than usual,” she admitted. “Um...Sherlock? Something wrong? You’re...you’re staring at me.” She fiddled with the end of her braid nervously, glancing at her boyfriend and back to the detective. “Something on my face?”

Sherlock forced a grin, the goblinish one that made John cringe. “Just admiring your glow. I’ll put this with the others, shall I?” Without waiting for a response, he lurched for the kitchen and brandished the present at Sally, who directed him to the tiny dining nook and the pile of gifts on the table. Sherlock set it down and took several deep breaths. Molly was starting to show, the very slight curve of her growing belly obvious beneath the clingy jumper she was wearing but practically invisible in her lab coats and work clothes. If he tilted his head just _so_ he could see her rubbing that bump as Lestrade and John joked and talked about god only knew what... He felt his mouth going dry and his pulse kicking into higher gear. His body was betraying him, anger mingling with arousal as he watched her fingers stroke the swell of pregnancy beneath her pale fingers, his thoughts taking a turn he knew could not be avoided. _Touching that bump, feeling the skin pulling taut over the growing swell, the thrum of life and biology..._ His cock twitched and he hissed an angry breath through his teeth, closing his eyes before forcing a long, deep breath into his lungs. He opened his eyes to find Sally staring at him from the kitchen doorway. “I’m allergic to ducks,” he muttered, nodding at the plethora of yellow duck print on the table. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and sauntered deliberately into the living room just in time to be overwhelmed.

Out of the twelve women at the party, five were visibly pregnant and two of those were so large and gravid that Sherlock was sure they would go into labor at any moment. If John noticed his discomfort, he said nothing. The flat was full of cooing and giggling, the men forced to the edges of the group as they did their best to look insightful about breast pumps and small plastic bathtubs, so no one really noticed as Sherlock slipped to the loo, shutting the door and locking it behind him, shoving the clothes hamper and a box of towels that Molly had already begun packing in front of it for good measure. He couldn’t face himself in the mirror, leaning instead with his back against the countertop, head dropping back as he pressed a palm against his hard, aching cock. He never understood just why he felt this way, how the sight of a pregnant belly, of a woman full of someone else’s baby, could make him so damn hard, so aroused... If it had just been Molly, he could have probably dealt with it. Ignored her as he did at the morgue most days, pretended the slight swell of her belly was weight gain, then go home and roger the Hell out of John as he thought about curved tummies and full breasts. But now, now there were five other women there in various states of gestation and two... Oh, god, two of them were so round and _pregnant_. Sherlock felt his cock in his hand before he realized just what he was doing. Stroking slowly, thumb twisting over the moist, exposed head, he held his breath as the images danced to life: Molly, large and round and so _slow_ , on the verge of giving birth any day now, needing help just to stand from her spot on the sofa, needing someone to stretch up and reach a high shelf for her. Oh, maybe Lestrade would ask him to keep an eye on Molly, maybe the DI would be working late and be worried about his pregnant girlfriend. Sherlock would be there, be able to see how she sank, tired and heavy, into the cushions of the couch, how she rested her hands on that belly. His cock was starting to leak freely as images combined, conflated in his mind. Her pregnant friends out there became _her,_ a familiar face, one he had seen in a variety of expressions now atop of gravid and slow body. He stifled a groan as the mental picture of her with her eyes squeezed shut in pleasure as she laid back on the bed, her body aching with the effort of pregnancy. He could hear the women in the living room, the soft laughs and loud chatter undercut with the lower voices of the men, driving home the differences in Sherlock’s thoughts. His hips begin thrusting into his fist as he saw, in his mind’s eye, Molly in the same clingy red jumper she had on out in the living room, but her belly much, _much_ larger, the fabric strained and pushed up higher on her stomach to accommodate the baby bump. Heat coiled and tightened low in his belly and he knew it was time, knew he was about to tip over that cliff’s edge. Shame and confusion flooded his veins as his brain through out one last image, of Molly slowly rubbing her swollen belly, the purple stretch marks like war paint, marks of honor stretching from her hips, up from her mound and across the fundus. He stuffed his free hand in his mouth as he came, hard and hot, into his fist, managing to keep most of the spill from getting on his trousers.

“Oi! Sherlock! Got some expectant ladies out here,” John’s voice came through the bathroom door a minute or so later, as Sherlock finished washing his hands and righting his clothes. “That means the bathroom needs to be free...”

“Of course.” He opened the door and, for a moment, towered over John with a bland, innocent expression. “My apologies to the ladies. Just... having a think.”

“I really hope that was code for hiding out and not something else.”

“Really, John. How vulgar.” Sherlock pushed past him to see that the party had moved along to some sort of game involving tiny plastic dolls and a dart gun. He was intrigued but the sight of the women, of Molly especially, made him uncomfortable now. His body tried to respond but succeeded only in a half-hearted twitch that ached more than not. Edging to the (blessedly empty) kitchen, he did a quick mental check. No, the idea of sex with any woman, Molly included, did nothing for him. He had no desire to feel the slick heat of female arousal, to cup and squeeze soft breasts and hear a feminine voice panting his name. He had _every_ desire to feel John thrusting into him, to feel John’s mouth on his cock, to hear the rough tenor of his lover’s voice shouting incoherent things to the ceiling... “Thank God,” Sherlock muttered, snagging a cup of rather sickly green sherbet punch in which the sherbet had melted and become an odd seafoam white.

“You missed the presents,” John said from the doorway. “They loved the baby monitors we gave them.”

“We do have good taste,” Sherlock replied wryly, knowing that John had signed his name to the card as well as his own. “How much longer?”

“Not much,” John grinned, crossing to him. He slid his arms around Sherlock’s waist and rested his head on the taller man’s chest. “You okay?”  
“Just... a lot of things to process,” Sherlock half-lied. His body felt pleasantly lethargic but just thinking about his little problem, his...oddity...it made him feel deliciously dirty yet curious at the same time. _You’re going about this all wrong,_ he scolded himself. _This is the perfect chance to get to the bottom of this paraphillia!_

“John...do you think... would Lestrade like us to help out as Molly gets further along? You know, as she gets...bigger? And slower? He does work nights sometimes and all...”

“Bigger and slower? Christ, make her sound like a caravan. And we’re usually working nights with him, remember?” Sherlock wasn’t sure what John saw on his face that made the doctor’s features soften and a smile dance to life. “We can find out. I bet they’d appreciate the help, getting things ready for the baby.”

Sherlock hid his tentative smile in his cup, feeling, for the first time, like this unusual desire of his might be one of his favorite experiments ever.


End file.
